


Brilliant Deductions

by HipHopAnonymous



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Bottom John Watson, Corporal Punishment, Discipline, Figging, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Master/Slave, Paddling, Punishment, Spanking, public spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:41:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24673288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HipHopAnonymous/pseuds/HipHopAnonymous
Summary: In an alternate universe in which John ends up as Sherlock's slave, the detective subjects John, who has purposefully misbehaved, to an embarrassing public spanking.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 11
Kudos: 111





	Brilliant Deductions

“Oh, John,  _ please _ stop being so obvious.”

It was yet another strange and unexpected response from the detective. Most Masters would shout, rant, and rage over a valuable object being broken by a clumsy slave. 

“I know very well that you just dropped that cup on purpose,” Sherlock continued while John stood frozen next to the jagged china pieces on the floor beside him. “You did so in part to let out your anger over being a slave. There’s surely something cathartic about breaking your Master’s belongings. It’s a small act of rebellion, in a way. However, it’s completely idiot of you since the tea set actually belongs to Mrs. Hudson, and you know that. Breaking the cup was also an attempt to test me, since I recently threatened that the next time you broke one of the china pieces, I’d do something you most certainly would not like, and your curiosity over that threat has become unbearable. Better to get it over with and find out what happens, right? Of course, this is completely ill advised since I never exaggerate, and you should have just behaved yourself like I keep telling you.”

Sherlock took a gulp of air, having rapidly rattled off his deductions in what sounded like one massive breath. John stared unblinking at him, and Sherlock rolled his eyes, clearly finding John’s slack-jawed astonishment more bothersome than amusing at the moment. The truth was that John wasn’t nearly as clumsy as his frequent slip-ups would imply, and that Sherlock was, per usual, correct; John had let the teacup slip from his hand on purpose.

“Very well, then,” Sherlock said, voice clipped as he sprung from where he’d been lounging, limbs askew, on the sofa. “Let’s get this over with, so we can get back to working on the case.”

He plucked a small wooden paddle from where it hung on the wall next to the fireplace, and John’s cheeks colored. He hated that Sherlock kept the implement hanging up in plain sight. It was a constant humiliating reminder of just how John could expect to be punished should he step out of line. It made John feel like a naughty little school boy. Of course, John realized that was precisely why Sherlock kept the paddle there, and why he used it to frequently warm John’s disobedient bottom.

John sighed, knowing what came next. He tried to tamp down the rush of embarrassment as he unfastened his trousers, hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his pants, and pulled all the fabric down to his ankles. With a deep breath, he bent over the desk, bracing himself for the sting of that deceptively small and wicked little paddle.

“Uh-uh,” Sherlock said, shaking his head, and John turned to give his Master an inquisitive eyebrow quirk. “Not here. I told you I was going to do something you wouldn’t like. I’m raising the stakes, John. You could use a bit of extra persuasion to behave, I think.”

Sherlock turned on his heel and began putting on his long coat. John frowned, bending to pull his pants and trousers back up.

“No need,” Sherlock said without even turning to look at his slave before making his way out the door. “Just take them off and leave them on the chair. You won’t be needing them.”

John blanched. “B-but … if we’re leaving … then … ”

“Yes, I suspect you’ll be a little bit chilly, but never fear!” Sherlock raised the paddle and gave John an obnoxiously smug grin over his shoulder. “I’ll warm you back up soon enough!”

  
  


John trailed after Sherlock down the busy London pavement, wishing his jumper was much longer as he tugged at the bottom of it. As it was, the shirt only came down to the tops of his hip bones, leaving him completely bare in front and back down to his crew socks and oxford shoes. John finally gave up, cupping his hands in front of his limp cock, small and shriveled from the cool air, as he walked. Sherlock was having none of that, though.

“Hands by your sides. Slaves don’t need to be modest. Oh! Better yet, here —” Sherlock handed John the paddle, “hold this.”

John was then forced to carry the object of his backside’s doom while curious onlookers gawked at his predicament. It didn’t take a man of Sherlock’s genius to deduce what was going on: an unfortunate slave was being led in half-naked shame to have his bare bottom paddled!

John tucked his chin to avoid looking at all the people they passed, and was therefore forced to stare at the paddle. It was oval-shaped and small, but the wood was plenty thick. It was a sturdy little thing, the business end being perhaps twice the size of a hairbrush. John knew from experience that it packed a wicked burn and left bruises that made sitting down an unpleasant endeavour for at least a few days. The memories of his numerous paddlings made his ears redden, his face feeling overly warm despite the cool weather.

“I ought to drill some holes in it,” Sherlock said, interrupting John’s thoughts. “It cuts down on wind resistance, and makes the sting much more intense. Also leaves nasty little blisters on the skin which might be a useful reminder to unruly slaves such as yourself to mind their manners.”

John bit his lip to withhold the rude retorts that threatened to burst forth. The paddle stung, yes, but all of Sherlock’s taunts were worse. Still, he decided it was wise to keep quiet when the fate of his bottom was currently on the line.

Sherlock led him only a few blocks away, thankfully, though when John beheld the large, raised platform around which a substantial crowd of leering free people were gathered, he half-wished the walk had been longer. John fidgeted with the paddle, feeling more than a little bit embarrassed to walk naked from the waist down into the crowd. He soon realized, however, that the audience’s attention was on the stage. A slave was strapped down over a padded horse, her legs restrained and spread wide enough that nothing was left to the imagination. A woman, presumably her Mistress, raised a broad leather strap and brought it down across the unfortunate slave’s bottom. They had been at it for some time, if the bright red hue of the slave’s buttocks were any indication. The poor slave wailed with every smack, and John shuddered, realizing that he was next in line as he followed Sherlock to stand by the stairs that led up to the platform.

The Master and slave finished up, and the slave was led away, bare bottomed and sniveling, the scarlet welts on her backside evidence that she had been thoroughly punished.

“Come along, John,” Sherlock said, taking the stairs to the platform two at a time with ease.

The blood rushed in John’s ears as he slowly and reluctantly followed, barely hearing the jeers from the crowd as they stared at his naked bottom — pale white for the time being. Once on the stage, he had no choice but to hand the paddle to Sherlock and bend over the horse. His short stature required him to stretch up on his toes as he got into position, scooting forward over the triangular horse and putting most of his weight onto his stomach on the padded bolster. Sherlock bound his wrists, and then fastened a strap across his lower back. However, the detective did not bind John’s ankles like the other slave’s had been, but left them dangling free.

“Here we go,” Sherlock said, quiet enough that only John could hear over the rumble of the crowd.

Sherlock gave John’s bottom a couple gentle pats with the paddle before raising it high into the air. John tensed, bracing for impact, but was in no way prepared for the burning eruption of pain when the paddle smacked down hard against his left buttock. And then his right. Then left again. John bit his bottom lip in an attempt to stifle his shouts. This only made Sherlock spank harder, clearly determined to crack John’s stoicism.

John’s bottom was on fire, his face turning nearly as red as his buttocks. His entire body tensed as he breathed wet and heavy through his nose. Sherlock suddenly stopped, and John slumped over the bolster, backside throbbing in hot agony. Somehow, he’d managed not to cry, scream, or beg. It was already humiliating enough to get a public bare bottomed spanking, and so he most certainly did not want to blubber through it. 

Honestly, John wouldn’t feel quite as embarrassed to be whipped or beaten, but, of course, Sherlock chose to use a small paddle on purpose as a blow to his slave’s ego. Being paddled on the bare bum like a naughty child was nearly as insufferable as the detective himself. And though the small paddle might look like nothing, its appearance was decidedly deceptive, as it packed a terribly mean punch. Even so, John refused to double down on the demeaning display by crying like a little boy — no matter how much his bottom stung!

John’s ears pricked as he heard Sherlock saying something to someone, thanking them. Then Sherlock bent down to speak into John’s ear, “That was a valiant effort at keeping a stiff upper lip, soldier, but I imagine you may struggle with this next bit.”

John’s heartbeat ratcheted, unable to fathom what his Master may have planned for him next. The brief hope that his punishment had ended was quashed, and his relief turned quickly to panic. Sherlock placed one large, thin hand on John’s left buttock and John tensed. Strapped down over the horse, he could do nothing to stop Sherlock from spreading his buttocks wide open (in front of the crowd of onlookers, no less!) and pressing a strange, cool object against his anus. He instinctively clenched his cheeks, and Sherlock clicked his tongue.

“You’ll want to relax, John,” he scolded as he pushed the object right inside, forcing it past the reluctant pucker.

The object was cool and slick, feeling much like a small plug, and John was beginning to wonder what the point was when a burst of burning fire engulfed his hole. His jaw dropped and he gasped out a breath of shocked air.  _ What in the bloody Hell  _ was _ that?! _

“Ginger root,” Sherlock explained, as though he’d read John’s thoughts. “It’s called figging. Stick a ginger root up your bum and you’ll experience a potent burning sensation right where you’re most sensitive. People used to do it to horses. The Victorians used it for discipline and kink. Some still enjoy it for recreational use. All sorts, huh?”

John stiffened and kept as still as possible, every clench and wriggle sending waves of fire deep inside him.

“I can see you’re feeling it now,” Sherlock said, “Time to carry on!”

Without further ado, Sherlock began smacking the paddle against John’s bottom again at a rapid pace: right side, left side, top, bottom, and on and on and on. At first, John kept still and quiet, not wanting to reignite the ginger in his bum  _ or _ give Sherlock the satisfaction of having broken him. But those relentless swats soon became too much to bear, and he finally let out a plaintive howl at a particularly sharp crack to the back of one thigh. From then on, he couldn’t stop his hips from wiggling from side to side in a futile attempt to escape the blazing inferno that was his entire rear end. In tortuous desperation, he also began kicking his legs, realizing somewhere in the back of his mind that Sherlock had elected not to bind his ankles on purpose in order to leave John’s feet free to kick and flail away the pain of his punishment. 

It was no matter how embarrassing it was to wail, beg, and waggle his bare bottom in front of a group of strangers, John just couldn’t control those natural responses that Sherlock was wrenching from him with that awful paddle. Apparently, all it took was a tiny ginger root and a sound paddling to transform the mighty soldier into a flailing, naughty little boy; one who was so distracted by the sting in his bottom that he was oblivious to the way every frantic, vigorous kick of his feet showed off the private bits between his legs. There was simply no room for modesty while enduring a paddling of such magnitude!

It was several moments after the blows had stopped that John realized the paddling was over. He lay panting, his bottom a mass of fiery pain inside and out. Sherlock pulled that hateful ginger root out, and John made a relieved and defeated little sob, sniffling pitifully, all dignity having been spanked right out of him.

Sherlock unfastened the restraints and helped John up on unsteady legs. Unfortunately for John, nobody was waiting in line to use the apparatus next, so there was ample time to stand up there on the platform with his hands on his head, showing off his bright red, well-spanked bottom to the jeering audience.

It was the most perfect and terrible cherry on top of an already extremely effective punishment for John. Sherlock knew very well that John had been proud, private, and stoic before he was enslaved, so being forced to endure a childish paddling after which his bare bum and tear-stained face were so prominently and publicly displayed was a huge blow to his ego. A punishment likely to nip in the bud any further acts of rebellion for a long while.

After what felt like hours of shameful exposure of his naughtiness, Sherlock finally led John down from the stage. Though the bare bum walk home was nearly as humiliating, John took comfort in knowing the end was in sight. They had just reached the door to 221B when John caught sight of a very pleased little smirk on Sherlock’s face.

John couldn’t help but confront his Master, “You  _ enjoyed _ that.”

“Brilliant deduction, John,” Sherlock said, the corners of his lip twitching. “There’s hope for you yet.”

John stared, mouth gaping, Sherlock’s candid answer shocking him into frozen silence.

  
Sherlock shrugged, “You  _ are  _ right. Well observed, John. It’s true I’ve a little bit of a sadistic streak, and needed to blow off some steam. You didn’t  _ really  _ think I cared about Miss Hudson’s old tea set, did you? Now, close your mouth before you catch flies and get upstairs so I can fuck you. After clearing my head, I’m sure we can finally make progress on that fascinating case about Twitter and the cat!” 

**Author's Note:**

> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/HipHopAnonymou9)  
> 
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